Memories are not Immortal
by foreversnowynights
Summary: Some days he remembers more than other days. Some days he remembers nothing. But one thing for certain is that he was alone, and the green eyed man in his memories had long since passed. If only he wasn't the only one who could live forever. AU T to be safe


Life had become too much, but that, he expected, would be true to anyone who never died. No, to anyone who could die as many times as they wanted, and still lived, that was it. And that was truthful for him.

He didn't recall much from his early days, but then again they were over several centuries ago. Who could blame him when normal people couldn't remember the first few years of his life? No one could. No one could blame him. Especially since he was hidden; obscured from view. He didn't want to be caught. He didn't want to be found. He had thousands of names, hundreds of abandoned homes and plenty of knowledge to survive without the people around him even giving him a second glance. His most recent alias is Marlin Fisher, a man born in Florida who moved up north to New England to become a lobster fisherman. He had no family but sent money down to his parents every once and a while to help them in retirement. This alias happened to be one of his favorites besides John Green, a mountain guide in Yellowstone, and Allen West, an anonymous photographer for any newspaper that found his photography good. The only alias of his that he never used was Alfred F. Jones, immortal 19 year old man with no family, no home, no job, and no money who was born into a people that didn't keep records of birth and stolen into a people that did. Alfred F. Jones was his absolute most loved and loathed alias, because it was himself. It was his real name, his real life and he didn't want to share that with anyone. Not when anyone could betray him, not when everyone was against him and never when no one was by his side.

That was his life. Sitting alone in a darkened old apartment in an old and musky chair next to an old and rotting window. Life was miserable. Life was horrible. Yet some days he didn't know what was worse, the fact that he wanted to end his existence, or the fact that he couldn't.

oOoOoOo

Some days he remembered his "youth". Some days he remembered a man with long blonde hair and an albino yelling at other men around him, but telling him something, something important. He remembered trekking through snow and standing in a field in front of a green eyed man, a gun pointed towards his chest. Some days he remembered lying in the mud as he bled out through a hole in his chest. But he always remembered that it was not the green eyed man he caused the second memory.

Some days he remembered sitting in a ditch, but he knew it wasn't a ditch, it was a trench. He remembered the fear and the pain. He remembered the fear and the anger and the overall _need_ to protect. He remembered pain in his chest and an emptiness from the waist down, much worse than he had been bleeding out in the mud, though it wasn't surprising considering how half of his legs were gone.

Some days he remembers someone sitting next to him in the trench and speaking to him. He remembers the hint of an accent and a comforting hand on his shoulder. He remembers holding the man in which the comforting hand belonged to, green eyes like the man who he had in his earliest memories. He remembers, vaguely though, soaring through the sky. He remembers the feeling rushing through him, running as deep as his bones. And then he remembers falling and burning and screaming a name, the name of the green eyed man. And after that memory, he remembers no more because he doesn't want to remember any more.

Some days he liked remembering and some days he hated it. But most days he didn't remember anything except that he was alone and that was his life.

oOoOoOo

He could feel eyes on him all the time, watching him, tracking him, testing him. Most of the time he could ignore it. He could ignore it and he could sit and wriggle under the glare like a worm on a hook. He knew who was watching. He knew. He didn't know who specifically it was, but he was certain they were involved in the government. He was certain.

They watched him closely. They followed him. And he knew. He knew that they knew he knew they were following him. As crazy as it sounded, even to him, he knew it was true.

oOoOoOo

He remembers dying. Every death he had ever experienced, he remembered. He would dream about them, or see them. Almost every death he had ever had there was someone there. Someone by his side, holding his hand, pulling him close, whispering, promising that he would be okay. They both knew he wouldn't, but they said it anyways and for an odd reason, the promises helped. The promises held a better life in front of him, they held more than the word promises could ever mean to someone. It held everything. It held the universe, the meaning of life, the meaning of _his_ life, and it held love. So much love and he _loved_ that feeling of love. But now, he had no one to die with.

The green eyes man, the blonde haired man, the albino man, that strange ghost-like man who looked like him, they were all gone. He was certain. Because his memories of them took place so long ago. So long ago, that he wasn't even sure if _he _was still alive or if he was dreaming. But if he was dreaming, he prayed it would end soon so he could wake up in a world where the green eyed man was real.

oOoOoOo

He couldn't go out anymore. He couldn't do it. He was going crazy and he hated it. He had to quit his job, his one of his most favorite jobs, and he stopped going to the store. His shades were shut from dawn to dusk and every hour after that. The lights of his apartment stayed off most days and his mail stayed in his mail box. It was as if he had moved away, yet he was still locked into the apartment. The eyes. He had seen them. Green eyes. So he was obviously crazy. Obviously, blatantly, visibly crazy. They didn't exist anymore. They had dissolved, rotted away with the corpse of the green eyed man. Because the green eyed man wasn't alive still. The green eyed man had left him. At least, that's what he thought. The green eyes man had disappeared from his memories after the flying and the burning. Or maybe the green eyed man just hadn't been able to find him until now. No, no it wasn't true. He couldn't give himself any false hope. The green eyed man was dead. So was the blonde haired man, the albino and the ghost. So was everyone else. It didn't matter if you were alive at the moment, you would be dead before he ever truly laid down for his eternal rest. So no one was living. No one was breathing. It was just him.

So why it is that he could hear it? Why is it that he could hear the faint sound of someone breathing lightly so that they would not be found?

oOoOoOo

The green eyed man loved him. That is what he told him anyways. The green eyed man said that he loved Alfred. He said it as he hugged him, or said it as they played with wooden toys that the green eyed man had given him. He said it as he grew, and he said it close to the time in which the flying and the burning happened. The time in which he had been soaring through a blue abyss of beauty, only to erupt in pain.

The green eyed man loved him. And he believed the green eyed man. But for some reason, in the pit of his stomach he felt like he had hurt the green eyed man. He felt as if he had taken the heart of the green eyed man and squished it in between his fingers. But who was he to say; he couldn't remember. He never could. Yet he hoped the man forgave him, because he believed he had come to love the green eyed man.

oOoOoOo

There was a gun. It was pointed at him. It was cocked. It was ready to shoot. The finger was on the trigger. The hand had a slight tremor in it. The voice gave an order, but his mind had already kicked into overdrive. His lack of sleep and nutrition made him muddled and slow. The words were too fast to him, but the barrel of the gun jabbing him in the back spurred on movement. He stumbled forward and his hand shot out for support. The window shades ripped down and the man that the hand and gun was attached too yelled. He screamed and kicked him. He whimpered. The man stood and held the gun to his chest. He thought to beg, but he didn't. All he could think of was the moment of peace he would get. The moment of silence and nonexistence.

The door was kicked open and the man reeled back. There was a _bang, bang, bang_! And silence. He was shaking. His hand traveled down and touched a thick sticky liquid and a hole, right above his heart.

Two hands grasped him by the shirt collar. They yelled and they called his name. Not one of his aliases, not a lie, but Alfred and oh did it sound beautiful. The way the voice's pitched heightened when he couched and his eyes began to roll back and the darkness began to take him. But a name appeared. It came out for the darkness and escaped through his lips. "_Arthur_."

oOoOoOo

On cold winter nights he remembered sitting with Arthur wrapped up in a thick blanket. Arthur would make him cocoa and whisper stories in his ears. He still did that in the war too. Not the revolution, but the World War when he was afraid of hurt and Alfred did the same. It was wonderful. It was love.

Especially when Arthur did it when they were at home or visiting each other. That was what he loved and craved. A warm place to curl up and hide from the world. Who didn't want one?

oOoOoOo

_Beep. Beep. Beep_. That was the first sound he heard. Then he heard birds, and then a voice. "Bloody idiot, the second we find you, you get shot. Only you Alfred, only you."

Yes. He knew that voice. He knew it well, for he loved it. It was his life and drive. It was everything. His eyes fluttered open and met teary green. He remembered this. He was supposed to say something now. Say something! "_Arthur_." He whispered. The name was foreign on his tongue, but he liked it. The man leaned forward, green eyes wide and beautiful. There it was. There was what he was missing. "Arthur."

The green eyed man smiled and took his hand. "I've missed you Alfred." He nodded.

"Me too."

oOoOoOo

AN: If you didn't understand what was going on in the fic (which would not be surprising), Alfred looses his memory in a plane crash. When he awakens he goes on to live a normal life until he "dies" and learns he is immortal in which memories begin to resurface.

Eventually he figures out he was being watched (by the US government as well as England, Canada and France) and he begins to have a break down. During his break down someone breaks into his appartment and holds him up. When the shade is ripped off the window England can see the gunman and bursts into Alfred's appartment in all his British Glory to save the day. Alfred is shot and "dies". When he wakes up at the hospital some of his memories have reawaken and he remembers England (though not fully).

Some of his memories took place during prerevolution and revolution times as well as World War I and II.

Please review ^^


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